


Lotus

by CaremKefo, Otsanda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bullying, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:23:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaremKefo/pseuds/CaremKefo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otsanda/pseuds/Otsanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has moved from school to school over the past thirteen years because his dad hadn't been able to settle in one place for long since the death of his wife. Now they've made a home in Windom, however, and if he'd been given a choice of which school to stay in until he graduated, Windom High School would be bottom of the list because here he's unpopular, bullied, and has no friends. Then Castiel Milton, captain (and hero) of the school soccer team, suddenly starts talking to him...</p>
<p>I hate to do this, but I am officially putting this fic on hiatus. Sorry, guys. :(</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a fluffy one-shot inspired by [this](http://trenchcoatandimpala.tumblr.com/post/62608321611/yourfanficsucks-princxe-i-sit-next-to-a) Tumblr post, but that didn't turn out very well! I will have to come back and write more for this eventually, but I'll be honest and say I have another fic that takes priority over this one.
> 
> The title is inspired by a quote from Goldie Hawn which I think is going to be a metaphor for Dean and Castiel's relationship:  
> " _The lotus is the most beautiful flower, whose petals open one by one. But it will only grow in the mud. In order to grow and gain wisdom, first you must have the mud — the obstacles of life and its suffering. The mud speaks of the common ground that humans share, no matter what our stations in life. Whether we have it all or we have nothing, we are all faced with the same obstacles._ "

Dean Winchester was seventeen and he was going to drop out of high school before he graduated at the rate he was going. Ever since his mom died his father couldn't seem to stay in one place too long – he couldn't settle down anywhere because nowhere was home without his wife – at least, that was until he bumped into Kate Milligan and she'd told him he was the father of her son, Adam, and they'd settled in Windom, Minnesota. Dean figured his dad was trying to live the life he was supposed to have with Mary, and Dean wouldn't have a problem with that if it didn't mean that John was a better dad to Adam than he'd ever been to Sam and Dean.

Now it looked like he was actually going to make it through a whole year of school without moving five times, and he just wanted out. He liked to think he was cool, but the truth was he tried too hard and the only people who looked up to him were the handful of people lower than him on the popularity ladder who were too stupid to realise that he was a fake. Even if he stayed in school until the end he was too stupid to actually graduate, and it's not like his dad cared about him enough to push him to do better. He was a failure. A failure with no friends despite the fact he'd been attending Windom High School for the past eight months. And starting in the middle of the school year was never easy.

"Detention, Mr Winchester!" Miss Moseley called out as he sauntered into class five minutes late.

"Whatever," he mumbled.

The only seat left was beside Castiel, the captain of the soccer team. He wasn't quite sure how that had happened, but he reluctantly approached the empty desk.

"Do you mind?" he asked.

Castiel glanced up at him, and Dean sucked in a breath because he'd never been this close to the stuck up jock, but _damn_ his eyes were blue.

"Not at all."

That was it – three little words, and Dean shuddered.

He sat down.

He pulled out his notebook and his textbook, and for the next twenty minutes stared at the numbers, willing them to make sense. He managed to finish about three questions, and a quick look at the back of the textbook confirmed that he'd gotten them all wrong.

"You won't find the answers to life in the back of a text book, boy," Miss Moseley called out.

Castiel snorted beside him, and Dean turned around to tell him to _shut the fuck up_ but realised that the jackass wasn't laughing at him, but snoring.

Struck by a thought, Dean smirked and stretched over to to reach Castiel's notebook. Out of habit, he doodled two small curves on the corner of the page, but stopped before finishing his crude sketch of a penis. His eyes flicked up to Castiel's face, but the guy was still snoozing. He looked small, and vulnerable – nothing like the emotionless prick who strode around the school like he was God. He turned the penis into a flower, and moved his hand back to his own notebook, striking a line through the three equations he'd fucked up.

He redid the first one (a check of the answers in the back proved he _still_ hadn't grasped the concept of differential equations) and looked over to see Castiel still snoring softly. He didn't know what possessed him to draw a second flower to keep the first one company, but he did anyway.

Miss Moseley cleared her throat and he flushed, resuming his own work once again.

As he tried desperately to compare the problem on his notebook with the ones in the textbook, Dean became vaguely aware of Castiel's pen scratching the page, and he wondered how much longer they had in this class. Early in the year Miss Moseley had told them that she was sick of students staring at the clock all class period so had gotten rid of the thing. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see that Castiel wore a watch on his left wrist. It would be easy to take a quick look at it, but Dean knew what people called him – pretty, and delicate, and the 'male model type' (he knew what they _really_ meant by that – that he was a girly boy) – so the last thing he wanted was for people to actually start calling him gay. Nevermind that they'd be right. It was none of their damn business!

"Hey! You got the time?" he asked quietly, not really expecting an answer.

But an elbow subtly nudged his side, and Dean glanced over to see that Castiel had laid his hand flat so he could see the time.

"Thanks," he said, unable to keep all of the surprise out of his tone.

Then he saw the sketch half hidden beneath Castiel's fingers and he narrowed his eyes, turning his gaze back to his notebook with a smile. Dean's flowers were now growing in a meadow that looked like it had been drawn by someone with paintings hung in the Louvre, and it put Dean's child-like doodles to shame.

At that moment, class ended. Dean had stuffed his books in his bag and was halfway to the door before the bell had even stopped ringing.

He slowed as he reached the doorway, though, and everyone else roughly shouldered their way past him. He was jostled into the door frame – and wow, okay, that hurt – as he turned back to see what was giving him the feeling of being watched.

Castiel was staring at him. He hadn't moved. The corners of his mouth curved up, ever so slightly, and then the fucker winked – actually _winked_ – at him. Castiel Milton had winked at him. His gut told him that he should feel flattered and start blushing, or wave like the total dork that he was, but all he felt was fear and dread, because this was the beginning of the set-up in every clichéd high school movie there ever was, in which the jock set out to embarrass the unpopular new kid.

He heaved his bag higher onto his shoulder and walked out, missing the way Castiel's face fell slightly as Dean walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long... Many thanks to [Otsanda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Otsanda), without whom this _still_ wouldn't be updated!

Over the next few days Dean was constantly on edge. Hyper aware of Castiel's eyes on him every time they passed, he was just waiting for him to make his next move. Because this was some kind of set-up, right? It _had_ to be.

Castiel always seemed to know when he entered a room, because he'd look up and stare at him. Dean could feel it now as he walked into the cafeteria, and his shoulders tensed as he dropped his gaze to the floor. He fucking hated this. Having Castiel on his back was worse than that jackass Alastair, because at least he knew what to expect when Alastair decided to rough him up.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he stood in line, digging into his pocket with his other hand for what little money he had. Sammy ate like a horse, so Dean always gave him most of their lunch money. His lips moved subconsciously as he counted the coins in his hand and the person beside him sniggered. He flushed because he knew just how badly he sucked at math, but he had just enough for a slice of pie and a can of soda, so he wasn't going to starve. When he got to the counter, however, there was no pie to be seen. His shoulders sagged.

"Looking for this?" Elizabeth asked from behind the counter, a smile on her face and a piece of pie in her hand. "The apple sells out fast, so I saved you a slice."

Dean just stared at her.

"Well ain't you gonna thank the girl?" Benny asked, moving over to stand by her side.

"Thanks," Dean said faintly.

Benny chuckled. "Go on. Eat it before it gets cold."

Dean grinned. Sure, the kids hated him, and the teachers thought he was a waste of space, but the dinner staff were great. "Thanks, guys."

"No worries, kid."

Dean joined another line to pay for his meal – if you could call it that – and then went to sit at an empty table. A little noise came from the back of Dean's throat without his permission as the first chunk of apple hit his tongue. Dean sent a silent thank you to the kitchen staff. The pie was soft and firm at the same time with just a hint of cinnamon, just the way he liked it. Just the way his mom used to make it.

Something vaguely painful and nearly mortifying rushed through Dean's body, and he angrily wiped a hand across his face. He was seventeen! He wasn't going to start crying in school because he missed his mom. He was definitely too old for that shit.

Looking for a distraction, he grabbed his can of Coke and bent the ring over, only for the drink to bubble up over the table and into his lap. Instinctively, Dean shoved his chair away from the table and shot to his feet. The chair made a loud bang as it fell to the lunchroom floor and the surrounding tables went silent. He scowled at the drink as if it was the pop's fault while everyone around him began to point and laugh. Dean threw his pile of napkins on the mess and pulled his chair slightly to the side, sitting back down with his face burning. He kept his head down as he ignored the mess in favour of eating his pie, not wanting any of the others to see his face.

"Hey," a quiet voice said.

Dean looked up warily, because no-one talked to him.

"You can have mine if you want. I'm not thirsty." The blonde girl put her soda down beside him.

He racked his brain, desperately trying to remember her name. Just as she turned to go he blurted, "Becky!" and blushed even redder. Smooth, Winchester. Real smooth.

But she turned back to him.

"Thanks."

She grinned, and danced off to sit with her boyfriend. He was a quiet guy, and a little weird, and Dean thought he ran the school newspaper. Okay, so maybe not everyone in this school was a complete and utter dick.

He pulled the pop tab back and got sprayed in the face.

Becky's whole table burst out laughing.

"Whoops! Sorry!" Becky called over lightly. "I forgot I dropped it!"

Dean abandoned the remnants of his lunch and stalked out of the room, his appetite disappearing with the last of his dignity.

* * *

The rest of the day went far too slowly. Despite trying to clean them in the bathroom, Dean's pants were still sticky with Coke by the time he got home. After the incident at lunch Dean had been glad that he wouldn't have to see his classmates until Monday, but as soon as he set foot in the house he found himself wishing he had school the next day.

"Dean? That you? Why the fuck didn't you take out the trash like I asked you to?" John shouted, storming through from the kitchen before Dean had even closed the front door.

"I said I'd do it when I got home from school," Dean said, already riled up. "I'm going to do it now!"

"Don't bother," John sneered. "I did it already."

"What's the point in asking me to do something if you're going to fucking do it anyway?" Dean snapped, kicking off his shoes and trying to shove his way into the kitchen.

"Don't you dare talk to me like that, son!" John fumed, gripping Dean's upper arm with his left hand.

"Don't you dare call me 'son'!" Dean shot back. "Not unless you're gonna act like my dad!"

Dean was no stranger to corporal punishment. John had taken his belt to Dean's ass a few times when he was being rebellious, but Dean didn't expect his father him to ever raise his hand to him in anger, so he was taken completely by surprise when a slap sent him reeling.

"What the fuck?!"

"Go to your room, Dean. Get out of my sight."

Dean ran upstairs, desperate to avoid any further arguments. He dropped his bag on the floor and threw himself on his bed, burying his face in his pillow and screaming into it in frustration. He stretched an arm out, fumbling for the remote control for the CD player, and he pushed random buttons on it until AC/DC blasted out of the speakers. He could still hear John moving around downstairs and for a brief moment he considered turning the volume up, before deciding that that would just incite another shouting match with his dad.

Dean focused on the music until he succeeded in tuning everything else out. He supposed it was as close to meditation as he'd get. His cheek was still warm from where his dad had hit him, but he only had himself to blame. He was always rude, always pushing, and he didn't know when to quit. It wouldn't surprise him if John kicked him out one of these days.

* * *

Dean hid in his room the rest of the night, not even venturing out for something to eat. When he headed to the shower later that evening he almost stepped on the plate of cold leftovers by his door. He pondered briefly as to who might have brought it up, before deciding that it was probably Kate. If it had been Sam he'd have just come in seeing as it was his room too, the thought wouldn't have crossed John's mind, and he didn't think Adam would care that much about the older half-brother who was the centre of every argument. Plus, Kate had been trying to build a connection with Sam and Dean since they moved in, but it hadn't really been working. If she'd finished work before he'd arrived home from school then she'd likely heard his shouting match with John, and was probably trying to show that she wasn't taking sides.

He went to bed early, and was asleep before Sam came to bed. When he woke up the next day, Sam was already up - presumably either downstairs or on the computer. He finally emerged on Saturday afternoon after some serious protesting on his stomach's part, and went straight to the kitchen. After a quick investigation of the cupboards it was apparent that no-one had done any shopping lately, and all that was left of the bread was the ends. He dropped them into the toaster while he brewed his coffee, and smothered them in butter as soon as they'd popped. On his way to the living room, his toast balanced in one hand mug of coffee in the other, he almost walked into John.

John's lips thinned as he stepped around Dean towards the front door. "I'm heading out," John grunted unnecessarily. "Feed Sammy, will you?"

Dean blinked and nodded, and then John was gone.

"Feed Sammy," Dean said mockingly to the empty room, bristling because it made Sam sound like a family pet rather than John's _son_.

He sat down in front of the TV, but it was only when Sam bounded down the stairs an hour later that Dean realized that he'd been staring at the black screen. He'd never switched it on.

"Hey, Dean!" Sam chirped cheerfully, collapsing onto the threadbare couch next to his brother.

Dean could feel the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "Hey, Sammy."

Sam humphed and shoved him, and Dean smirked. 

"Whatcha doing?" Sam asked, still staring at him.

"Nothing. You got something you wanna watch?" Dean shook the crumbs from his shirt onto the floor and stretched out across the couch, his head on the armrest and his legs on Sam's lap.

"Nah. I just don't wanna do homework anymore." Sam made a noise of disgust. "Feels like I've been staring at that shit for a hundred years!"

"Hey!" Dean snapped, kicking Sam lightly. "Don't swear!"

"Shut up and pass the damn remote," Sam laughed, shoving back at Dean's foot with his knee.

"You're going to need glasses if you keep moving between the computer and the TV all day," Dean said.

"You're not my dad!"

Dean stilled. He wasn't Sam's dad, but he'd been a better parent over the years than John had. He reached behind his head and groped for the remote, balancing it on his foot and presenting it to Sam, who wrinkled his nose.

"Gross, Dean!" 

"Whatever, man. I'm awesome."

Sam rolled his eyes and turned the TV on, and they sat and watched Tom and Jerry reruns for half an hour or so.

"Where's Adam?" Sam suddenly asked out of nowhere.

"Birthday party," Dean muttered. Kate had left them a note in the kitchen, telling them that she'd dropped him there on her way to work and would pick him up on her way home.

"Huh. What about Dad?"

Dean frowned. "Out. Didn't say."

Sam nodded, his face carefully turned towards the screen. "I'm glad you're here."

Dean was, too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear [Otsanda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Otsanda) is a gift from God!

"Hey, moron."

Dean spun around. Alastair had cornered him by his locker. Again.

"Heard you've been hitting the books. Thought I'd give you a hand."

Dean felt his backpack ripped from his arms, and some of the class materials he'd been swapping over scattered across the hall. Alastair only had two of his goons with him, but that was enough to overpower him pretty quickly and before he could so much as kick out in retaliation he was being shoved backwards into the narrow locker behind him, his shoulder twisted at an unnatural angle. Alastair shoved Dean's bag into his side and slammed the door shut. 

The metal rang loudly, but then there was silence. Then a hissed, "I know it's cliché, but I just couldn't help it! You have fun in there, Winchester."

The silence lasted a few more moments as the echoes of Alastair's footsteps receded and the rest of the students started chatting away. Dean could already feel the bruises forming where his bag, books, and the metal hooks inside his locker dug into his flesh. 

Fuck. 

Forced contortionism. 

What a perfect beginning to the day.

* * *

His shoulder was still aching when the bell for third period rang, and he hadn't been completely successful in his attempts at avoiding Alastair during morning break - the jackass had pushed him going up the stairs - so now he had a growing bruise on his knee from where it had hit the edge of the step when he'd fallen. He walked into his math class and— Jesus Christ! Why was the only empty seat beside Castiel _again_? He rolled his eyes and tossed his bag under his chair before all but throwing himself into his seat.

"Rough morning?" Castiel asked, eyes already focused on his textbook even though the bell had barely finished ringing ten seconds ago.

Dean humphed and got his books out, flicking through his textbook without really knowing what page he was looking for.

"Turn to page three hundred and ninety-four," Castiel told him.

Dean did just that, and then paused, registering a lighter tone than usual. Did the dude just quote Harry Potter at him? He looked over at him, but Castiel was busy scribbling down numbers as if he had a time limit in which to complete them.

He scribbled the first problem into his notebook and tried to concentrate on the difference between permutations and combinations, but he couldn't stop glancing at Castiel's watch out of the corner of his eye, already counting down the minutes until lunch because it was the only hour of the day he wasn't likely to have to put up with anyone's bullshit.

* * *

Castiel wasn't stupid. He may have been focused on his work, but that didn't mean he hadn't been aware of Dean looking over at him. But what he couldn't figure out was _what_ Dean had been looking at. It wasn't his answers, if the frustrated sighs were anything to go by. A part of him had wanted to ask him if he needed any help (he clearly did) but he didn't think Dean would have accepted it, so they passed the class in silence.

He looked at his watch as he hurriedly chewed his lunch, shoving another forkful of curry in his mouth before he'd had time to swallow the last one. Castiel was good at math and often helped by tutoring the struggling middle school students during lunch – being captain of the soccer team meant he could try to schedule practice around the tutoring sessions, which were held on a different day each week to allow students who were involved with school groups the opportunity to at least attend _some_ sessions.

He liked to help the younger students, but the downside was that he barely had any time to grab a bite to eat; however on days when he had tutoring Miss Moseley let him go five minutes early so he could get down to the lunch room before the lines got too long.

That meant he was there when Dean trudged in less than a minute after the bell rang, and he found himself watching his enigmatic classmate share a short-lived laugh with the cafeteria staff and then carefully pick the seat closest to the door (and furthest away from anyone else).

He averted his eyes and concentrated on clearing his plate as quickly as possible, in hopes of returning to Miss Moseley's classroom before his student got there, for once. With his attention still on his meal, Castiel only noticed something going on when a soft hush fell before half the room erupted in laughter. Shoving the last bite into his mouth, Castiel stood up and scanned the room. The only other person standing was Dean, his face flushed in embarrassment. A pool of soda spread across his table, despite the handful of paper towels that Dean had thrown down to soak it up.

Suddenly in less of a hurry, Castiel slowly carried his tray over to the side of the room, sliding it into an empty space on the rack and carefully dumping his trash in the bin. He paused before depositing his unopened can of Coca Cola into his bag, however. He already had a bottle of water, so didn't really _need_ it. The can felt cool with condensation and solid in his hand and the spare napkins bunched in his other fist felt very dry in comparison. He looked back at Dean and saw him shoving at the spilled drink fruitlessly with his bare hands, trying to keep it on the table. In that moment of hesitation, he decided to offer Dean a more concrete olive branch than the occasional friendly word. He crossed the room, aware of several pairs of eyes looking up at him (he was, after all, one of the more recognisable students in the school) and tossed the remaining napkins in the middle of the mess before setting his soda down directly in front of Dean.

Dean stared at the drink as if it had offended him.

"You can have it," Castiel said, striving for kindness. "I don't need it."

"Oh, yeah - because I like my drinks shaken, not stirred, is that it?" Dean snapped, angry green eyes piercing into Castiel's for a second before he stormed off.

There were a few scattered giggles that he didn't quite understand, and he picked up his drink again. He may not particularly need it, but he wasn't going to let it go to waste, either.

He was still trying to work out exactly what it was that he'd done wrong when he walked into Miss Moseley's classroom. It was empty except for Dean's younger brother, Sam. Castiel smiled a bit. He was unsurprised to see him. Sam was the only one who consistently turned up to tutoring. He didn't eat with his friends on whatever day tutoring was scheduled for that week, instead choosing to bring a sandwich into the classroom (after Miss Moseley approved the decision, provided he didn't make a mess) and had always started working before Castiel made it upstairs.

"How are you doing?" he asked, sitting down beside the younger boy.

Sam looked up at him. "Fine."

"Good."

Castiel said nothing for several moments as he watched Sam work. After a moment, he slid a sheet of problems over to Castiel to have a look at. Sam was a smart boy, but he was behind in most of his classes just like Cas suspected Dean was – though the older Winchester clearly wasn't working to catch up.

"You have a brother, don't you?" he asked innocently, his eyes fixed on the paper in front of him. Sam stopped writing to turn the page of his textbook. "Can't he help you with this?"

Sam scoffed. "He doesn't care much for school."

"No?"

"No."

Castiel nodded. Sam didn't seem inclined to say more, so he prompted, "You know, I think I know your brother. Dean, right?"

Sam looked at him. "Yeah," he smiled. "Are you friends?"

"Well, I wouldn't call us _friends_ , per se. We sit beside each other sometimes." Twice could be classed as sometimes, surely? The school year was just getting started. They were pretty likely to sit together again... right? 

Sam's face fell more than Castiel expected. "No, I guess not. Dean doesn't have friends."

Castiel frowned. When Dean had first arrived at Windom High and stood before the class in his ripped jeans and over-sized leather jacket, Castiel hadn't paid him much attention. Since then, Castiel hadn't really spared him that much thought, but if he had, he would have assumed that that Dean had made friends. He was good-looking enough to attract attention and he seemed like a nice enough guy. Looking back, however, it was obvious to him that Dean was a loner; he came to school alone, walked to class alone, and ate lunch alone, though he evidently had Sam. Castiel was starting to feel guilty for not making more of an effort before now, despite that they were from very different social circles.

The rest of lunch period passed in relative silence.

* * *

"Castiel seems nice," Sam commented a bit too casually when he walked up to Dean after school.

"What?"

"Cas. He's nice."

Dean frowned, because what was Castiel doing talking to Sammy? He opened his mouth to ask as much, when he realised that the man in question was standing nearby watching them. He threw his arm around Sam's shoulders and started walking towards his car.

"Listen, I don't want you talking to him, Sammy – you hear me?"

Sam pulled away from his brother's embrace. "It's _Sam_! Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old."

"You might not be twelve any more" Dean teased lightly, hoping to put an end to any argument before it started, "but you're still—"

"And you don't get to tell me who to be friends with," Sam continued, talking over him.

"Castiel isn't your _friend_ , Sam!"

"Yeah, right. You'd know all about that, Dean, because you have _so many friends_!" Sam snapped, stopping dead in his tracks.

"Keep walking, Sam."

"No. I'm going to make my own way home." Sam said, acidly. "I'll see you later."

"Sam. Sam! _Sammy!_ " Dean shouted after him but it was useless. Sam just kept walking.

* * *

Castiel watched their exchange uncomfortably, turning and walking off in the opposite direction when Dean turned to glare at him. What on earth had that been about? Dean had looked like he was really angry with him when he'd turned to glare at Cas - like it was _Castiel_ 's fault that Sam had stormed off. He wished he'd been closer so he could have overheard what had been said.

He didn't dwell on it, however. Whatever Dean's problem was he was sure Dean would keep to himself and Castiel wasn't likely to hear about it. He fished his iPod out of his pocket and tucked his headphones in his ears. He scrolled through the albums, thinking that he'd probably get home before he could decide what he felt like listening to.

He didn't bother with the front door of their apartment block when he got home, instead jogging up the fire escape. His mother had bought the 'penthouse suite', as she lovingly called it, after his father died. They couldn't afford to stay in their old home after the funeral. Their new home was a shabby building with peeling paint and fluorescent strips gone yellow with age, but it was a surprisingly spacious apartment given the low price - though that was probably more to do with the story of the girl who threw herself down the stairs than anything else. (Rumour had it that she had thrown herself down the stairs and broken her neck at some point in the late 1940s, but it didn't seem to matter to those happily spreading the macabre tale that the building hadn't been built until the early '70s.)

Nevertheless, Naomi Milton had never been one to miss out on a bargain and had eagerly snapped the place up after being won over by the view. There were two good-sized bedrooms, and though the open-plan kitchen/sitting room was also generous (it needed to be to accommodate all his mother's painting supplies) it had compromised the size of the bathroom, which Castiel would never stop wishing was larger. (He could quite happily live the rest of his life without ever seeing another feminine hygiene product.) There was also a small patio area that provided access to both the roof and the fire escape, and when he'd reached the top of the fire escape Castiel crossed it and walked into the living area through the French windows.

He stopped dead in front of his mother's latest artwork. "Damn it!"

"Wash your mouth out!" came his mother's voice from the other room.

Castiel stared at the outlined painting, as a charcoal angelified version of himself stared back.

"Do you like it?" his mother asked, standing behind him to admire her sketch.

"No."

"Castiel!"

"I mean, it's beautiful, but... How many times have I asked you to _stop drawing me in your art pieces_?"

"But you're such a handsome boy," she complained.

"Naomi—"

She wrapped him across the knuckles with the wooden handle of her paintbrush.

"Ow!" Castiel exclaimed, rubbing his hand.

" _Mom_ ," she emphasised.

"No need to call me _mom_ , Naomi," Castiel muttered.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing." Castiel crossed his arms and stared at her. "I don't like it when you draw me," he stated flatly.

She tutted. "Well you're just going to have to suck it up, Castiel, because that outline is only the beginning."

Castiel groaned.

"I'm going to paint it and enter it in a competition."

Castiel's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What competition?"

"The one that's being held at the local art gallery."

"And what's the _prize_?" Castiel asked through gritted teeth.

"A thousand dollars and five hundred dollars worth of high quality art supplies."

"Oh," Castiel said in surprise, and the tension drained from his shoulders in relief. The last thing he wanted was his face being ogled by a bunch of strangers. "Well. That's good."

"Yes, I thought so. Oh," she added innocently, "and the painting will be shown in art gallery for a month."

" _Mom!_ "

Naomi giggled.

"You'd better give angel-me enough clothes this time."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic rating changed from 'General Audiences' to 'Teen and Up' because this chapter contains some graphic bullying.
> 
> Also a MASSIVE thank you to [Otsanda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Otsanda) for all her help with this chapter.

Sam still wasn't talking to him. When Dean asked him to pass the butter for the second time at breakfast that morning, John had yelled at him to get up off his lazy ass and get it himself.

Sam had looked vaguely apologetic at that, but still hadn't said anything _or_ passed the butter.

As usual he walked to school with his friends, leaving Dean to drive alone. He missed driving the little bitch to school, even if he did complain about Dean's choice of music, but he was happy that Sammy didn't have to put up with the sort of shit Dean had to on a daily basis.

When Dean walked into math, he was surprised to see Castiel very deliberately clearing his stuff from the table beside him. He briefly considered sitting somewhere else, but then figured that he'd be better off taking advantage of... whatever this was... for however long it was going to last. Maybe he'd even figure out what the guy wanted from him.

"Are you and your brother all right?" Cas asked when Dean sat down.

Dean froze, wondering how obvious it would be if he stood right back up again.

Castiel seemed to realize his mistake. "I'm sorry, I just saw the two of you yesterday and I thought—"

"Yeah, well _don't_ think," Dean snapped.

Castiel frowned. "Why shouldn't I—"

But at that moment Miss Moseley walked in and he fell silent.

Class went as well as it ever did, which is to say it was pretty damn terrible. Dean struggled to keep up with the notes and when they switched over to their worksheets, he felt completely lost. He struggled through a couple more problems before a moving flash of white at the neighboring desk caught his eye. Dean glanced over surreptitiously. Despite being right-handed, Castiel's notebook had been shoved all the way to the left of his desk. Upon closer inspection, Dean saw that the page was blank except for a little cartoon dog. Its big eyes made it look innocent and a little forlorn. Dean glanced at Castiel, but his face was partly hidden by the hand it was resting on as he worked on his math problems. 

Dean leaned closer. 

Castiel didn't move.

Dean quickly drew a few tufts of grass around the dog's feet and then busied himself with his own work again. When he glanced back a few minutes later, he saw that the dog was looking across the page at what was clearly a fire hydrant. For some reason, Dean imagined the dog was sad because he couldn't get to it.

Leaning back over to Castiel's desk, Dean added a doghouse, collar, and chain keeping the dog where he was.

Oddly pleased with himself, Dean went back to work. He had just managed to get some sort of answer to the second problem on the page, when he heard a soft "hmm" noise to his right. Dean peered through his eyelashes. Castiel was just shifting from his notebook back to his worksheet. Dean leaned closer. In between the dog and the fire hydrant, Castiel had drawn a little girl in pigtails. She wore a tiny dress and was kneeling in front of the dog, her hands outstretched.

Huh.

Dean wasn't sure what that was supposed to—

"Ahem."

Both Dean and Cas jumped at the voice behind them.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but this is _not_ an art class. Do you want some help with your real work, boys?"

Castiel glanced at Dean and they both shook their heads, but Dean found himself wishing that he was one to ask for help. Math was a lot harder than cartoons.

* * *

At lunch Dean grabbed a pre-packed sandwich at lunch and took it outside to eat, pretty anxious to be away from other people. He pulled the collar of his jacket up as he stepped outside. It was warm, but every now and then the wind would pick up. He walked over to the bleachers, his pace unhurried as he enjoyed being alone. He settled down in the middle of the top row of seats and took a moment to open up his BLT and spread the filling more evenly across the two halves.

He chewed slowly, enjoying the brief moment of peace and quiet that would last only until the first few students finished their lunch, and then there would be laughing and shouting and screaming.

When he was finished, he shoved the empty sandwich packet into the bottom of his bag and pulled out a thin, tatty, cardboard box from the side pocket. He opened it gently, not wanting to damage it any further, and pulled out the harmonica. It had been a gift from his Uncle Bobby, the idea being that he'd practice a little every day, and the next time John's travels took them to Sioux Falls he'd show Bobby how much he'd improved. However while he'd certainly gotten much better over the last year, it didn't look like the Winchester family was going to be travelling anywhere any time soon.

He licked his lips and raised the small instrument to his mouth, letting a depressing melody dance around him on the wind. Soon the notes mixed with voices from the opposite side of the field, and he looked over to see the cheerleaders setting up for lunchtime practice. They were several cheerleaders short starting back over the summer, so they'd probably be holding auditions as some point over the next few weeks. He watched them practice with a pang of jealousy, wishing that he had the guts to go over and ask when they'd be. Even if he did ask, though, he wouldn't audition.

It wasn't like he'd never thought about cheerleading before, but the last time he'd joined a team and his dad had found out he'd beaten his ass five shades of black and blue with his belt until Dean had promised to quit the next day, because cheerleading wasn't for men. But then that was before Kate and Adam and _Windom_ , so perhaps his dad wouldn't notice if he did.

* * *

A couple of days later Dean saw the poster advertising the time and place of tryouts, and his feet abruptly stopped in front of it.

"Is the princess thinking about trying out for the cheerleading squad?" Alastair mocked, striding down the hallway towards him.

Dean tensed, bracing himself for an assault. "Fuck off."

"Princess has got an awfully dirty mouth on her – maybe we should wash it out?"

Dean was so focused on the approaching bully that he hadn't realized the rest of his gang gather around behind him until four hands grabbed him and began shoving him down the corridor away from the bulletin board and into the bathroom.

"Get... off... me!" Dean grunted as he tried to pull himself out of their grasp.

A foot lashed out at the back of his knees and he went down onto the tiled floor.

"Open up," Alastair instructed, looming in front of him.

Dean spat at him, and pressed his lips together in a thin line.

"Disgusting pig." He came down to Dean's level so he was looking him straight in the eye. "I'm gonna make you squeal," he promised, an excited and somewhat sinister twinkle in his eye.

Alastair nodded at someone behind Dean and they hooked their fingers in his nose, forcing his head back until he opened his mouth. Alastair must have given another signal because Dean was then manhandled towards the wall under the sink. Dean realized what was going to happen just as they positioned him under the soap dispenser. Someone gripped the hinge of his jaw so tightly he felt it crack. He struggled more viciously, but there were three of them holding him in place. With a wicked grin, Alastair repeatedly pushed the front of the dispenser sending short streams of the goopy liquid flowing onto Dean's face and into his mouth.

Since their aim wasn't perfect, Dean ended up with soap on his lips and a dribble running down his chin. The taste of the soap filling his mouth made Dean want to gag, but that would send it running down his throat. He tried to turn his head away and spit, using his tongue to push the soap out, but he was held too tightly. Once Alastair was finished, he pressed his cold fingers to the underside of Dean's jaw and forced it closed, wiping his face tenderly with some kind of cloth. Before Dean could react, the lower half of his face was securely covered in strips of duct tape. Alastair's smile was so satisfied it made Dean feel physically ill. 

"Tie his hands behind his back and get to class," he instructed, watching the show with his sick grin. His henchmen ripped great strips of duct tape and forced Dean's arms higher behind his back, securing them together from elbow to wrist.

When they were alone, Alastair dribbled spit onto Dean's forehead. Dean recoiled when the slightly warm liquid hit his skin. The soap mirrored it horribly on Dean's tongue.

"Squeal for me," he whispered, shoving Dean backwards onto his ass and pressing his foot down hard into Dean's crotch.

Dean's vision doubled and he felt his eyes roll back into his head as he let out a high pitched wail, all the while struggling to keep the soap from sliding down his throat. He was dimly aware of the door shutting, but it wasn't until the pain had finally receded to a dull throb that he opened his eyes and looked around. He was alone, which was good, but anyone could walk in at any moment which was not good. He tugged and twisted at the duct tape restricting his arms, but it was too tight and didn't offer him enough room to wriggle free of it.

Slightly hysterical, he pulled on the tape until his arms ached and his head started to throb. Stupidly enough, the hardest part was trying to concentrate on _not_ swallowing. He'd never been great at multitasking.

He tried to reassure himself that he'd been through worse, but he really couldn't think of anything that was worse than being hogtied in the guys' toilets, his dick throbbing painfully, because some assholes in this school liked to piss on the walls. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he decided shutting himself in one of the cubicles would be his best bet to avoid further humiliation, though he still had to figure out how he was going to get out of his bindings.

When he had shut himself in the cubicle as best he could it didn't take him long to realize that the duct tape, though heavy, wasn't overlapped very skillfully. That meant he _should_ be able to get himself out of it, given enough time. He heard the bell signalling the approaching class period and groaned. If he didn't get out of this and run upstairs in five minutes, Miss Moseley was going to give him another detention. He frantically started levering his arms back and forth, trying to weaken the adhesive. He could feel it tugging on the little hairs on his arms and felt himself get even more pissed off. He had a plan of attack, though, so he felt a bit less panicked and more determined. 

He grimaced when his throat spasmed, trying to swallow. He tipped his head forward to alleviate the sensation and he wished he had something more than water so that when he _did_ get free he'd be able to wash the taste away.

Abruptly, the cubicle door opened and hit him in the thigh.

"Mmph!" he protested.

"Shit! Sorry, I thought..." Castiel trailed off, seemingly realizing that Dean wasn't actually _on_ the toilet. "Are you all right in there?"

"Hmph."

"Can I... Should I come in?" Castiel sounded concerned.

"HMM!" Dean protested loudly, his face tucked between his knees. Fuck no. That was the _last_ thing he needed.

But there was a low thud as Castiel's bag hit the floor, and then Castiel was edging himself around the door and into the cubicle with him. Dean pressed himself farther away from the intruder, frantically searched for a way out, but he was almost between the toilet and the wall as it was.

At first, Castiel was looking at him through squinted eyes, as if that would help him _not_ see anything he wasn't supposed to, but they widened in shock as he took in the sight before him. "Oh God, let me help you."

Dean struggled as Castiel reached around him, but paused when he got a whiff of vanilla. Castiel smelled like vanilla. And it wasn't the sickly sweet artificial vanilla, either. It was kind of nice. Castiel was pressed close enough that Dean could feel the rasp of cloth against his nose. Dean wondered if he was going crazy. Maybe it was the soap he'd undoubtedly ingested. 

He heard a ripping noise behind him and suddenly the strain in his arms eased. He scrambled to his feet and watched Castiel carefully folding and returning a small knife to his pocket. Dean picked carefully at the corner of the tape wrapped over his mouth, his head still tilted downwards to keep the stupid soap away from his throat as he straightened his limbs. He could see Castiel's feet retreating from the cubicle. When the path was clear, Dean rushed to the sink and ripped the rest of the tape away before spitting an impossible amount of soap into the basin, gagging and dry heaving. The sensation of ripping the absurd amount of tape off of his face was mostly drowned out by the soap, but Dean could still feel the residual sting from where the tape pulled out some of his hair.

Castiel, to his credit, said nothing. He disappeared into another cubicle to do his business as Dean swirled mouthful after mouthful of tap water round his mouth, trying to get rid of the vile soapy taste. The toilet flushed, and when Dean glanced up a moment later he could see Castiel's reflection . He was standing right the fuck behind him.

He spun round, tensed and ready for a fight. "What the hell, dude?"

Castiel held his hands up in surrender, offering a half empty packet of chewing gum in one. "It should taste better than soap," he offered.

Dean snatched it and tore at the packet to free the next piece of gum, watching suspiciously as Castiel washed his hands. "Thanks," he said quietly, passing it back to him.

Castiel gave him a small smile, and the second bell signalling the start of class rang as he retrieved his bag from where he'd dropped it minutes earlier. "We should get to class."

Dean contemplated this. He was going to get detention whether he went or not, so normally he wouldn't bother - especially when it was math. But if he walked into the classroom with Castiel, then maybe some of Alastair's goons would back off - even just for a couple of days.

"Yeah."

Dean followed Castiel out of the toilets, up the stairs, and along the corridor to Miss Moseley's classroom. Neither of them said anything to each other, but it was a strangely comfortable silence.

He was aware of everyone's eyes on him as he walked in after Castiel, and there was a couple of sharp intakes of breath and lots of quiet murmuring.

"Detention, Mr Winchester!"

"Yeah," he acknowledged her glumly. He'd expected it, after all.

"You too, Mr Milton."

"Yes, ma'am."

Dean frowned. He'd thought Miss Moseley would have given Castiel a warning, but no - now he was going to have detention with Castiel as well. A part of him wondered if that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"This is the third time you've been late into my classroom this month, Dean."

"I, uh, got a little tied up."

Alastair scoffed from somewhere behind him, but Castiel's eyes crinkled in response. 

"Sit down, boy."

Again the only spare seat was beside Castiel, so he swung his bag under the desk and threw himself down into his seat.

"You got some contagious disease I don't know about?" he asked gruffly.

Castiel's face smoothed and he frowned carefully at him. "What?"

"You have a crowd of friends who follow you everywhere and all of a sudden no-one wants to sit beside you? That seems..."

"Hard to swallow?"

Dean frowned.

"I'm sorry. That was inconsiderate." Castiel whispered, "Are you all right?"

"What do you care?" he hissed, glaring at his textbook.

"I wouldn't waste my breath asking a question I had no desire to know the answer to," he stated coolly. "Besides, I helped you out, didn't I?"

Dean clenched his jaw, feeling a little bad that he was shooting down the only person who'd been nice to him.

Castiel rested a hand on Dean's arm. "I'm not like them," he said softly, before removing his hand and turning back to his notebook.

Dean's arm felt cold where Castiel's hand had rested, however briefly, and he shivered.

* * *

When Dean went to detention at the end of the day, he didn't expect Castiel to turn up. He figured he'd probably have talked his way out of it, or had the coach intervene, so he completely missed Castiel striding into the room. When Dean caught a glimpse of a beige sweater far too close to his face he couldn't help blurting out, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Castiel shot him a bemused look. "Miss Moseley gave me detention, too - had you forgotten?"

Dean turned back to the school work he'd reluctantly started before Castiel had walked in.

Castiel sat on the adjacent desk with his feet on the chair. Dean had the feeling that he was watching him.

"I ran into Mr Lavigne in the hall." Castiel said after a moment. "He's supposed to be supervising us but he needed to leave because 'something important came up'. I promised we'd behave."

Dean stared at the notebook page, the numbers blurring together as the sound of his own heartbeat filled his ears.

There was no teacher coming.

What if Castiel was setting him up for another run in with Alastair? His grip on his pencil tightened so much it bent and nearly snapped beneath his fingers.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Castiel added.

Dean frowned. _What?_

"As fun as I'm sure detention would be," Castiel continued dryly, "I'd rather be elsewhere."

Dean swallowed. He would love nothing more than to get out of here, really he wouldn't - but if he didn't get this work done for Miss Moseley then she'd call his dad into school for a meeting and—

"I can't."

"Oh. Right."

"I have to finish this."

He was aware of Castiel peering over his desk. "Is that last week's homework?"

Dean gritted his teeth. "Yeah. So?" he snapped defensively.

"Nothing," Castiel said, still very much in Dean's personal space. "But Miss Moseley only ever makes you redo your homework if you really fuck it up, and no-one ever fucks it up that badly."

Dean's could feel his cheeks warming, and he scowled at his work.

There was a moment of silence, then an understanding, "Oh."

If it wasn't so damned embarrassing, it would be funny how slow Castiel was on the uptake for someone so smart.

"Do you..." Castiel cleared his throat. "I could help you with that. If you wanted."

"No."

"Okay." Castiel slipped off the edge of his desk and into his seat. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and made a big deal of musing over whatever game he'd opened.

Dean leaned closer to his notebook, the textbook open by his side, and dragged a thick line through his work to start again.

Five minutes later he ripped the whole sheet out of his notebook and crumpled it into a ball before tossing it in the trash.

He copied Table 4.2 out of the textbook again. And stared at it. It didn't make any more sense now than it had the last four times he'd looked at it.

"Did you write down the regression equations?" Castiel suggested, not taking his eyes from the screen.

Dean didn't respond. There were only a million different equations in the stupid textbook. How was he supposed to know which one to use?

"This section is on linear regression, right?" Castiel prompted when Dean hadn't moved in over a minute. "So flip back a few pages and they'll give you the regression equation."

That got Dean to move. "What?" he asked as he turned to look at Castiel.

"Here," Castiel said, turning textbook pages until he found the section labelled SIMPLE LINEAR REGRESSION. Producing a pencil from somewhere, Castiel turned Dean's notebook to face him and copied down the equation.

ŷ = b0 \+ b1x

"I don't speak Greek, dude. It's just a bunch of letters," Dean muttered. Castiel ignored him.

"They want you to compute it by hand. We need to solve for b0 and b1," he explained, pointing.

"Where are you—"

"Now, we get the data from your table," Castiel continued over him. "So use these columns. We need to subtract this from that and these two and then multiply them together. Then we divide all of that by the third column squared, but they've already done some of it for us."

Dean looked from the notebook to Castiel and back again.

"Okay," Castiel sighed.

b1 = Σ [ (xi \- x)(yi \- y) ] / Σ [ (xi \- x)2] 

"Now I'm using this row," Castiel pointed at the row labelled SUM, "because it's already done the work for us. Just divide!" He punched the numbers into his calculator and then circled his answer triumphantly.

b1 = 470/730 = 0.644

Dean just stared at him blankly.

"Where am I losing you?"

"At the point where there are _letters_ in my math!" Dean snapped.

"Hey, I'm trying to help," Castiel said defensively. "Which letters?"

"All of them!" Dean said, gesturing to the entire book.

"Hang on," Castiel said, rummaging through his bag and pulling out a handful of highlighters.

Dean frowned. "What are you gonna do with those?" He asked suspiciously. "Okay," Castiel said, sitting back down a little closer than he'd started.

Dean frowned more deeply at him. " _Okay_ what?"

"Okay, we're gonna get rid of the letters."

"You're shitting me."

Castiel sighed. "This is gonna work, Dean. But this time, _you're_ the one doing the writing," he added, thrusting the highlighters into Dean's hand.

Dean stared at the handful of writing utensils.

"Highlight the top of each column with a different color," Castiel said. Dean obeyed.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Now do you see where else the headings are used?"

Dean followed Castiel's nod and his highlighter hovered above the b1 equation. He looked to Castiel for confirmation.

"Yes, exactly," Castiel exhaled softly.

Dean switched colors and hesitated.

"And the rest," Castiel encouraged.

Well, he mused. That kinda made sense. But... "What about this b0 thing?"

Castiel's smile grew and he copied another equation from the book.

b0 = y - b1 * x 

Dean highlighted that one, too.

"Good," Castiel smiled, and nodded.

Dean smiled a little in return. It was like a light bulb had switched on inside his brain, however faintly. He didn't feel anywhere near confident enough to say that he _got_ it, but it didn't seem quite so impossible any more, either.

"So do you think you're ready to tackle the rest of the problem?"

Dean tore his eyes from Castiel's and glanced back at the paper, taking a deep breath.

When Dean didn't say anything, Castiel chuckled and put his phone away. "I'm sure you can do the rest."

Dean studied the list of problems he still had to complete, acutely aware that Castiel had mentioned leaving and had absolutely nothing to keep him here. "Are you going home?" he asked quietly.

"Why? Do you want me to go?"

Dean swallowed thickly. "No," he admitted, forcing the sound from his throat.

"Good," Cas said, folding his arms and swinging back on his chair. "Because I'm pretty comfortable right here."


End file.
